


To Be Alone?

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-07-10
Updated: 2001-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-20 11:04:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11334438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived atThe Basement, which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onThe Basement's collection profile.





	To Be Alone?

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

To Be Alone? by Lurkerqueen42

Title: To Be Alone - Part I  
Pairing: M/SK, K/SK, K/SK/M  
Waring: BD/SM, Angst, None Con  
Rating: NC 17  
Archive: SlashingMulder, DIB, Anywhere else, just let me know  
Disclaimer: Hey, if I owned them, they would have a lot more fun.  
Watching Within/Without my little mind began to wonder, what would happen if he got blamed for Mulder's disappearance and possible death, a man's odyssey to self-redemption with a lot of help from the Ratboy.... Lq.  
Author's notes: I posted this a couple weeks ago as a WIP. The feeback was awe inspiring. At that time Urusal gracefully asked to become my beta for this story. I had to think a nanosecond before I leapt to accepte her offer. She is a stern taskmaster, pushing me to become a better writer. I think her nagging and suggestions paid off. This improved version reflects the hard work both of us put into this story. I would like to also thank Mort_The_Mad, Vyper, and Josan for their suggestions also when this was in its early stages.  
<.....> Denotes internal thoughts  
Feedback: 

* * *

To Be Alone?   
by Lurkerqueen42

Late 1999 

"Scully, I'm innocent. I did not sexually assault nor kill agent Mulder." 

Scully looked into his eyes and heard him say the words. She was a woman of science, of facts. Facts do not lie. The dental records were a match. The DNA samples of hair and skin that he had provided two weeks ago were a conclusive match. She also knew from her investigation, that Walter Skinner was a well-known player in the subculture that he and Fox Mulder belonged to. She had personally interviewed individuals at some of the clubs. What she saw curdled her stomach. She believed the facts. Her hand moved faster then her thoughts, slapping him across the face. Not looking at him, she turned and strolled out the office, not once believing his pleas of innocence. 

Leaving the door open, she passed two agents from OPR, acknowledging them, she said, "Thank you, you can have him." 

Assistant Director Skinner stood next to his desk, trying to fathom what was happening. Since the night he had lost Mulder several months ago, he had slowly realized that he was becoming the primary suspect in the investigation of Mulder's disappearance, then subsequent murder. 

He knew that Mulder was not dead, he knew it, but how could he prove it? Standing there with Dana Scully's hand print on his face, his wirerims hanging off his face, he was not prepared for the OPR agents that had walked in immediately after she stormed out of the office. 

"Assistant Director Skinner, please keep your hands where we can see them. You are being placed under arrest for the murder of Agent Fox Mulder." 

Skinner stood there, willing his body not to move. He felt hands on his person, his weapon ripped from his holster, his badge and ID card torn off his belt; unyielding cold metal cuffs snapped into place. 

"Do you understand what your rights are, Sir?" He sensed his head nodding in acknowledgment. He sensed the flashing bulbs going off as he was escorted past the media circus. 

"Walter, this is serious, the DA in Oregon wants the death penalty and I am not licensed to practice there." 

"John, we go back, I am telling you I did not do this." 

"Frankly, Walter, your innocence is not the question here. Your life style is, there is definite probable cause here. It's not going to be cheap; I'll get you the best. I need a limited power of attorney to liquidate your assets for the defense team. The DA has decided to not recommend bond. I'll try, but this case is becoming a PR nightmare for the Bureau." He waited for Walter to respond. All Walter did was sit there like a deer in headlights. 

"Look, it's late, sign the papers, when the transfer documents come to move you to Oregon, you'll have the best lawyers you can afford. We'll talk then and. Walter, watch your six." 

Walter Skinner did not have to watch his back, he was held in solitary confinement. It stopped the general prison population from having a field day, but not the guards from pounding his stomach into mush. 

It was obscene, every couple of days he could expect a guard to find fault and administer corrective treatment to curb his behavioral outbursts. His lawyers suspected foul play but no matter how much they pushed the issue, Skinner never complained. He knew the unspoken laws of prison, if he ratted out the guards, it would become a daily occurrence, not a biweekly event. 

Because of the constant abuse and the stress of the upcoming trial, Walter Skinner began to drop weight. By the time he was sentenced, he had dropped two sizes in his suit pants. 

Skinner liquidated his retirement fund, sold his family cabin, and condo at Crystal City, and nearly wiped out his saving and checking account. 

John and the defense team argued vehemently with Skinner about the defense strategy. Walter wanted to tell the truth, all of it. Finally, two days before the trial, John, at the end of his patience, flatly told him, 

"We go to trial and tell your story about aliens, space ships, a shadow government in collusion with little "green" or "gray" men, the Smoking Man, you'll get the needle for sure. No one, including me, believes this story. Walter, I'm telling you as a lawyer first and friend second, we can beat the death penalty. We'll show it was a sex game that got out of hand. The best, involuntary manslaughter, twenty years minimum, you'll be out in seven and you will be alive." 

Walter sighed in defeat he did not care anymore. Fox was not dead, but he was gone for good. "Do what you have to." 

Getting up from the bolted chair in the conference room, Walter looked at his defense team, and just for a moment, he saw their disgust over his life style in their eyes, "Let's finish this." Turning round and pulling his shoulders back, he called for the guard. 

For the next seventeen weeks, every nuance of his life was paraded in front of the press and the jury. He became the de facto poster child of the gay community, splitting the community down the middle. Before and after every court appearance, Walter would request to use the bathroom to clear his stomach of everything. 

In the end, Walter's team had won, convincing the jury that yes his BD/SM life style was deviant, but that Fox Mulder and he were in a mutual consensual relationship. According to the lawyers, one night it got out of hand. 

Walter snapped and panicked. It was a Pyrrhic victory. 

Standing there in his finest suit, head up, he heard Judge Riddell state, "Mr. Skinner you have broken the trust that the people of this country gave you. Mr. Skinner, I sentence you to thirty-five years. Take this man out my courtroom." 

Hands shoved him through the side door of the courtroom. He heard a voice behind him rapidly speaking, "Walter, watch yourself, I'll try to get the judge to send you to a Federal prison outside the state. I'll try..." Walter remembered looking at the guard who was escorting him to the holding cell, "May I have a moment alone with my lawyer?" 

The guard nodded and led them to a small conference room, closing the door, he waited patiently until the lawyer gave him a quizzical look. Sighing, the guard walked out of the room. 

"John, give it up, we both know I am a dead man wherever I go. And I have no more funds so I will not be needing your services." Walter lifted his head to catch John's eyes, "Thanks for saving my life," 

<What life?> Walter thought, but aloud he said, "Take care." With that said, Walter approached the door and waited for death to take him. 

~~~~~~~   
Two Years Later November 2002   
~~~~~~~ 

Walter stood alone in the communal showers stalls, being an ex Fibbie and a cop killer had certain notoriety. It was a blessing or a curse depending on what mood he was in when he thought about his situation. He was currently in isolation with the child molesters and other scum of the earth deemed to unworthy of being with the general population. Maintaining a vigil was a trying 24/7 job. 

In another life that term would have stirred his soul and other parts of his body. Now, the term meant being on guard even in his sleep. He expected and was not surprised when the first attack came. 

It was a botched attempt, Walter's cellmate, an old-timer, was stabbed multiple times in his bunk. It could have been him, however, the old timer had asked Walter to pick up a carton of Morleys at the cantina, Walter agreed. When he got back, the old man appeared to be asleep in his bunk, face down. Smiling Walter gently touched the old timer, and then noticing the blood seeping onto the blanket. Walter turned him over, the old timer was a pincushion. 

Walter stepped back and bumped into the other bunk, sitting down; he calmly opened the carton of Morleys taking a pack out; opening it, grabbing one, lighting it, and inhaling deeply, not bothering to call the guards. They would come any minute to do the head count. He was on his fourth cigarette when the guards came to do the head count. By the time that lock down was over and the internal investigation was concluded, Walter was a pack a day smoker. 

Six months later in the dinning hall, a riot broke out around him. Sensing danger Walter turned in time to see a skinhead with the largest shank he had ever seen, wildly taking a swing at him. In the ensuing scuffle, Walter had disarmed the man. When he realized that another skinhead was reaching for the shank, Walter dove for the shank, wrestling the man to the ground. The shank ended up in the man's guts. It was at that moment that the guards decided to disperse the mob, pulling him off the dead man. 

Skinner refused to cooperate with the investigation. For his refusal, he was sent to the hole. The hole is different from solitary confinement. The hole is dark and cold with a thin mattress on the floor. Once a week for two month he was hauled out of the pit to stand in front of the warden, the routine was the same. The warden would ask if he wanted to tell his side of the events that occurred in the dinning hall. Each time he refused, the warden would growl and tell him, "Go back and think some more." 

On the ninth trip up to the warden, the routine was broken. Walter Skinner stood in front a man that reminded him of his former life, dressed impeccably. The man observed Walter Skinner, 

"You smell ripe, Skinner, and I know that wonderful variety of P&J and J&P for your two meals is getting old. One more time, tell me what happened." 

Walter Skinner just stood still; in Vietnam, his stare would have been called the 1000-yard glare. A point man before burn out would get that look and one just knew not to be the one directly behind him in an S & D run. The warden shaking this thought out of his head, growled, 

"You'll stay in the hole until they inject you." At that remark Skinner straightened his back and looked into the warden's eye. <"Was it gratitude?"> He dismissed the fleeting thought with a direct question to Skinner. 

"You are aware of the stakes, Skinner?" 

Skinner showed a flash of recognition. The warden for a brief second felt like Pontius Pilot when he tried to talk to Jesus Christ before his execution. The warden blinked and tossed the notion away. This man was neither JC nor a martyr. He was a sicko fag cop killer who deserved the death penalty. 

"No fancy lawyers beating this case for you, Skinner. You'll be getting some burnt out PA who won't give a damn either way. The arraignment is next week and the trail is tentatively set for the following week. By the way, the DA is demanding the death penalty. 

Walter straightened his shoulders even more. The warden being totally disgusted with Skinner, said, "Get the fuck out of my office. I'll see you on the table." 

The guards dragged him to the pit, as the door slammed shut and total darkness engulfed him. Skinner reflected that the total lack of light suited his mood. 

Walter again was saved. By the luck of the gods, he had been given a P.A. that still believed. By sheer persistence and no help from Walter, he had proven that there was an open contract on Walter's life. Through collusion or apathy from the guards, The lawyer had showed that they had facilitated the attack on Walter's life. This he proved; proved beyond a reasonable doubt. 

The prosecutor at end argued that Skinner's training and knowledge of self-defense should have predisposed him to disarming the victim; instead, he chose to kill the victim. The jury agreed. Walter Skinner received a second murder sentence of second degree manslaughter. Fifteen years added to his sentence. 

At the sentencing the prosecutor demanded and received permission to move Skinner to the Federal Maximum Security prison in Orange County in California. Skinner realized that somehow Spender was pulling the strings. If he lived through his sentence, doubtful, he would be a member of the Psychotic R' Us Club. 

A warm memory wormed its way to the forefront of his consciousness. A time in late 1997 when the facility was being touted has the last great deterrent to crime. The dog and pony show that both Walter and Mulder had been shown had proven beyond a doubt that this facility had not one redeeming quality. Walter could still hear his lover's voice whispering into his ear over the luncheon murmurs, "Baby, let's leave. I need to wash this place off me." 

Nodding in agreement, both of them left on a pretext of doing Bureau business elsewhere. Their intimacy had no games that night, the urgency and the need of both to be held close overrode their life style choices. Snuggling up afterwards, it was Mulder who had coined the Super Max, the Psychotic's R' Us Prison. As always, he was right. 

~~~~~~~~~~   
Five Years Later 2007 Super Max Prison   
~~~~~~~~~~ 

Skinner held the phone like it was a lifeline. "He's back. He Is Back?!" 

Agent Dana Scully heard the terror and urgency in a voice that at one time shook the fifth floor of the Hoover Building. The voice in her head was the voice of Walter Skinner stating, "I did not kill." jumble of memories from the trial filled her mind as if she were there reliving them. 

Scully was shaken out of her reverie when a voice from the present shook her, "Agent Scully, I need to get out of here now!" 

"Walter it's not that easy. We have to ask the judge for release and time served for the second charge." Scully could not bring herself to say murder. "Walter, please, we have John back on the case, he is getting the papers ready as we speak." Walter's eyes opened when he heard his former lawyer was back on the case. 

"I can't afford him. Are you" Before he finished his statement Scully shook her head. 

"No, Sir. Mulder has hired him to get you out." Walter turned whiter than he already was when he heard who was paying for his release. 

For the first time in eight years Scully actually looked at Skinner, and what she saw was a shell of man, "Walter, Fox wants to see you, he..." 

Walter shouted hysterically into phone, "NO, I can not...get me out of here!" 

Dropping the phone, he called for the guard without looking back at her. 

It had taken another two years being locked up in solitary confinement at the regional state prison before John to get a court date to over turn the murder conviction. It seemed that every venue to expedite the hearing closed before they could fully open. It took another three months to wrestle a court date for the probation hearing. 

Walter S. Skinner sat in front of his lawyer. John's success defending the guilty expanded after his Walter's trial. So did the man's waistline. 

"Walter, the Bureau has agreed in not having an official policy on your exoneration. However, for their silence, you are not to have any contact with Agent Fox Mulder. His career is being weighted as we speak." Skinner just looked at his lawyer wondering if shirts that large were bought off the rack. 

"Take the deal, Walter. If not, the parole will be denied. It's the best I can do." 

Walter watched John's mouth move has beads of sweat trickled down his sideburns to form into a single drop as it touched his tight collar. Walter S. Skinner just nodded to the man while his hands trembled as inhaled deeply from his smoke. 

Walter S. Skinner shoulders were slumped and the suit that he wore hung so loosely on his thin frame that it looked as if he had bought it from a second hand shop. Walter was grateful for the ill fitted suit. No one could tell that Walter's body trembled the entire time he sensed Mulder behind him, staring holes into his back. 

A clear staccato voice had rippled through the courtroom, when Skinner looked down at his shaking hands and nodded that he would not contact nor approach Agent Fox Mulder. At that moment, he heard a voice rise above the calm. "You Bastard! Walter! Look at me, I am alive, Walter don't do this!" Walter's whole body tensed. If truths are told in dark places, Walter Skinner had agreed to the judge's demands because he himself did not want to see Mulder. 

~~~~~~~   
Early September 2010   
~~~~~~~ 

Standing next in line, the Kid looked up at the man and snickered. <What a loser!> "Yo, dude. Whats you want?" 

Fingering his paycheck, he did a mental calculation of what he needed to pay for, "Give me a bottle of White-K. No, Just give me a pint and carton of Morley's. Handing over his ID card, which clearly labeled his PO's work number. Skinner dropped his eyes down to the floor. <"Every fucking week this Asshole does this! Hold still, just a little while longer."> This was the mantra that he held on to every Wednesday. 

The clerk dropped the change loudly onto the counter. "Don't spend it all in one place, now." That was the most intelligent thought the clerk had for the entire shift. 

Not waiting to count the change, Walter scooped his money into his used leather jacket. It was a beautiful Bomber jacket, most probably stolen. He did not care. It kept him warm on the three miles walk home from the rat infested, greasy Tex-Mex-shit hole of a job to his rat infested apartment. He smiled and silently thanked Louise for the unasked gift. Skinner's hand touch the right pocket of the jacket, feeling its smooth texture, his mind wandered back to the day he first saw the jacket. 

The smell from the dumpster was not that bad. It covered the smell of the odors that lazily oozed through the screen back door. Leaning into the shadows of the dumpster, Walter greedily sucked his smoke down. He had just finished dumping the grease from the deep fryers. Scanning the night sky, Walter concluded that he would be soaked by the time he walked home. The transit system stopped at midnight; Walter never got out until after one or so. Taking a cab was not only impractical; it was just too expensive. Since the National Criminal Reform Act of 2003, all parolees and ex-convicts had to have ID cards. They were also barred from owning or driving personal automobiles. 

Skinner tucked his soaked white shirt into his soiled black pants while he clinched his jaw; and walked back into the restaurant to clock out. The dishwasher had left twenty minutes earlier, all he had to do was clock out and shut the doors. The doors where always locked, the manager had the only the set of keys. 

Skinner approached the time clock, draped on the clock, was the leather jacket. Walter picked it up lovingly and placed it next to his nose, inhaling deeply... another time, soft smells came back <Shit. Stop this, fuck; I will not think; I will not feel> Walter threw the jacket down on the ground, clocked out and walked over the crumpled jacket to the door. 

Two nights later, he and the Mexican dishwasher were left with the closing shift again. Walter was still fighting the cold, with a thin cheap vinyl jacket. After throwing the last of the trash out, Walter leaned into the dumpster to stop the wind, and had a quick smoke. When he had returned from his task, the leather jacket was again hanging on the time clock. He grabbed the jacket, clocked out and walked home. 

Walter's hand dropped suddenly, and waves of nausea swept over him. Fighting the memories, he clutched tightly the carton of smokes and snarled at the world. Taking a pack out of the carton, he lit a cigarette as he approached the apartment building. He stopped and pulled his pint out while walking up the stairs. Walter looked at the pint and forced himself not to drink any until he entered his room. 

Walking into his room, Walter tore into the pint greedily. It was half gone before Walter paused to catch his breath. Weaving as he walked to the antique tape answering machine, he noticed seven messages blinking. Taking another swig from the pint, Walter deleted all seven messages. 

"You should have listened to him. He really has perfected the art of begging." A voice from his past casually sneered. 

Skinner closed his eyes as a voice that had haunted him in his other life trickled into his ears and down into soul. "Please, No! Why?" Walter could not finish his sentence. 

Not knowing what he wanted and too tired to care, Walter stiffly shuffled towards the man. When he was about a meter away, Walter flopped on to his dirty bed. Lying upon the flea-infested sheet, Walter raised the pint to his mouth and allowed the liquid to flow into his throat. His eyes glazed to pin dots as the rotgut Scotch curdled in his stomach. After a few minutes, the pint slipped from his hands on to the bed. 

The man held the box in his good hand. Taking a cold look at the man lying on the bed, the man made a quick decision. Placing, the palm-pilot in his bomber jacket, he reached over for the pint with his good hand, perusing the label. The man took a gulp of the pint effectively killing the bottle. 

"Shit! Walter, you got to improve your standards in Scotch." 

"What? Why? What? Shit, just do what you came to do, Krycek, I really don't care." 

Krycek stared at the man a long minute and finally noticed what was off. Skinner could have been a poster boy for a third world famine relief programs. "Shit, Walter when was the last time you ate?" 

Walter Skinner expected nothing from the man, but this question forced him back into a reality from which he so desperately wanted to escape. Skinner had been working for the restaurant for six months. Working 48-55 hours of manual labor was brutal. At first he was just glad to be working, moving, but now the physical exhaustion was taking its toll. He answered the question with a question, "What time is it?" 

"0245 hours; now answer my question, Skinner." Krycek demand. 

"I ate at the job, I always eat there, it's cheap and wholesome." 

Krycek snorted at the tail end of this comment. 

Ignoring the laugh, Skinner rolled over, mumbling, "I need to be at work by noon, close the door when you leave." 

Krycek watched as Skinner rolled over and attempted to sleep. Biting his lower lip, he could not help but to be curious about Skinner's behavior. He was well aware of his recent past and took a certain amount of glee from Skinner's situation. He expected hollow threats, a vague attempt to be physically removed from the room, even fear at seeing the palm-pilot. But not this! 

It occurred to Krycek that Skinner didn't care. Shaking his head, he grabbed his cell phone when it vibrated. As he left, he vowed that he would look into Skinner's situation when he had the time. Smiling a feral grin, Krycek left Skinner's room with the idea of making some fast money. 

~~~~~~~   
Four Months Later, January 2011   
~~~~~~~ 

Walter's legs and lower back were numb. Working in the meat freezer for half the night then in the dish room, he knew he was getting a nasty cold. Intelligently he knew that he should take a day off and go to the doctor, but he could not. He hated his job. However, he hated the Super Max Prison more. Walter stood outside the kitchen area taking one of many smoking breaks; his eyes focused on the large white snowdrops that floated to the ground. He marveled at the sublime beauty of a freak winter storm in LA. Shaking off the feeling, he turned back to the kitchen. 

He pulled his jacket closer to his body; it did not stop the chill reaching his soul. Walking another mile, glancing at his watch, he knew he was not making good time. It was already 3 am and he had another half mile to walk. One good thing about LA, party stores are opened 24/7. Walter shoved his hands into his pockets. He felt his pay check rubbing against his fist. His mind going blank, he walked slowly for another twenty minutes. Finally reaching his destination, he approached the glass window, and curtly said, "Give me my usual." 

The clerk, not being particularly bright and mean spirited demanded to see his ID. Sighing and having no choice, he agreed to the creep's demand. Being on a budget had its advantages. He could only drink on payday. It gave him the courage to do what he did every pay day. 

His ritual of drinking half the bottle before erasing Mulder's message had developed in the first weeks of his release. Skinner had no desire to be popped for breaking Judge Pippin's rules. The old lawyer in him wanted to rebel; the new man just did not care. The judge had demanded that he not approach Mulder, and Skinner's throat went dry when he thought back to that day in the courtroom when he was given the parameters of his probation. 

The one time Fox attempted to see him, had been a fiasco. Walter had walked into his apartment. There stood an angel, a little thinner, a lot older, but the eyes were the same. Walter looked into his eyes, turned round and walked out, not closing the door behind him. Walter spent that evening at the Titty-Bar looking at very ugly women, drinking watered down beer. When he had returned early the next morning, there was his former lover sprawled across the bed. Walter grabbed a pack of smokes and went to work drunk. That day, the job did not bother him. 

Fox had learned his lesson. He vowed just to keep the lines open. What he feared was, on the day of Walter's release, that Walter would melt into the subclass of nomads that had started to roam the country since the Great Crash of 2005. Working for cash or barter, these people were almost impossible to locate. No IDs or tracking numbers nothing. Fox knew he had to be available, waiting to tell Walter he still loved him. 

What he did not consider was that Walter would not answer any of his messages nor read his mail. His letters where always returned. At first, Mulder left multiple messages a day. They dwindled to a message a day. The message was always the same, "Walter, please, we...I need to see you." 

Now, standing with a pint of White's Scotch in his shaking hands, Walter leaned against the door and drank half of the pint. Stiffly walking over to the old answering machine, he deleted the seven messages. 

"You should listen to the messages Walter, he really needs to see you." 

Walter turned round and noticed the silhouette of Alex Krycek. Sighing, Walter's shoulders bowed slightly as he whispered, "Krycek leave me alone! I want... I need ... just leave me alone!" 

"Walter, take a seat" Krycek nodded towards the bed. "Here have a drink." His hand swept in overly grand fashion to a fifth of Scotch that graced the only table in his room. 

Walter cautiously shuffled over and looked at the bottle. It was Glenmora, his choice of Scotch in his last life. With trembling hands, he picked up the bottle, twisted the top off and placed the bottle to his lips. Several swallows later, Walter placed the bottle down while sitting down on the edge of his bed. Not bothering to look at the man sitting in the chair, he mumbled, "Why?" 

Krycek just watched the play of emotions that ebbed and flowed over the older man's face. Again he asked the same question, "When was the last time you ate a decent meal?" 

"This is a nightmare! What do you want?" It came more as a whimper than a statement. 

Krycek studied the man and realized that he had to tread lightly. This was not the Skinner that kept him locked on the balcony years before. In fact, this man had no relationship to the one he had known. 

"What is wrong with this picture, Skinner?" The silence was thick, with no answer forth coming. Walter reached for the bottle again. "Skinner, don't." Walter's hand quickly moved away from the bottle. Frowning Alex appraised the situation. "Skinner, you stink. You need a shave and shower. Go take one. I'll wait." 

Walter's body shook, "NO! Why are you here?" 

"Go take a shower and shave, or I will do it for you and believe me, I really do not want to get wet. So, move your arse, now." Too many years of listening to others telling him what he could or not do had taken its toll. With shoulders slouched even than Krycek had thought possible, Walter grabbed the dirty towel and dull razor and shuffled to the communal showers at the end of the hall. 

"Skinner, don't try to leave." Taking out the palm-pilot, he held it out for Walter to see. Walter did not have to turn round to see the palm pilot to understand what would happen. Walter nodded and continued to shuffle off to the shower. 

Staring at the scum filled shower wall, Walter refused to think of the past. He refused to think of the future. All he did was think of the here and now. Wanting the warm water to wash away the feeling of despair, he focused on the rough washcloth that moved mechanically and efficiently up and around his body. As he turned off the faucets, his eyes wandered up to the bright overheads that lit the room. In another time and place, Walter remembered.... White lights 

~~~~~~~   
Flashback to February 28 2004   
~~~~~~~ 

White lights seared into his consciousness. Opening his eyes for the first time that day, he wondered why his sink was next to his bunk and the toilet at the end of the cell. Slowly rising from the bed, he felt every muscle crack and crick as he tried to focus, without his glasses, on the calendar. 

He smiled; it was the calendar that the new guard had left it for him when he had returned from the total isolation. His face, scruffy with two weeks of growth, sent to hell for another violation. <What was it this time? Aaah, yes I was screaming again. Blaming him... him, the man who brought me to this.>

When he asked the guard what day it was, a newbie to the job. Said, "Look on the fucking calendar." Walter just bit his lip and mumbled that he had not earned enough points yet for one. He interjected quickly that he was sure that he would get one before he was released. The guard just laughed and pushed him into the sterile white cell. It must have been Tuesday because Chicken Ala King was served. 

Underneath his tray was a small free checkbook calendar with all the months crossed off except for February of the second year on the page. The date "x'd" off was the 23rd. So, it had to be the 23rd of February. 

His eyes scanned the room, it had a calendar and that was it, no radio, Walkman, TV, nothing. He had nothing to do but remember and reflect on his actions. 

He reached for his pack of Morleys and found it empty. "I want a smoke, I want a wash cloth. I want! I want...Where are you? I'm so sorry" Long nights in the isolation cell had made him wonder, did he do it? 

The games were intense and he never let him have a safe word. Believing he would know when it got to rough. Somewhere down the line Skinner doubted his own sanity. 

<I did it. Did not do it. Did it. Did not>

<He was with me in the forest.>

<No!>

<No?>

<Yes!>

<Facts don't lie.>

<No, we were there together.>

<I saw that ship.>

<He was with me in the forest.>

<He was?>

<Yes, maybe.>

<"I was in the forest? Alone, alone? Was I ?">

<"Maybe?">

<"Yes!">

<"Oh God, Yes.">

<"Yes!">

This conversation and similar ones ran through his mind in an endless loop. In solitary confinement, gradually over time, these conversations had become trisyllabic; "I did it." With those words, all hope of forgiveness was lost. 

His doubts gradually became reality; <He's dead>, "He's Dead...I'm Sorry, Oh God can you hear me?" He blinked his mantra and rose from the bed. 

Stiffly, walking to the head, while relieving himself, his hand moved along his flaccid organ and for a brief second he thought about "Mr. Hand." However, he just did not have the desire or the energy since the day Mulder disappeared. He refused to think about the past. 

Shuffling back to his bunk he held up the neat folded washcloth and noticed that it was completely frayed. He wondered if today was the day that he would be allowed to go to the cantina. His smoke privileges were reinstated when he had gotten back from the isolation cell. But, more then that, he just wanted to walk around and look at the items. 

Long ago he stopped trying to acquire personal items; they always seem to be damaged beyond use when a shake down occurred. The thought of actually buying a new washcloth excited him, <"Yes, a new one, what color? Red, blue, black? Yes, black or the darkest color they had."> His thoughts swirled in a plethora of possible colors. 

Looking up at the video camera, he shouted, "Hey, I need some fucking smokes! I want to go the cantina. Hey, are you assholes paying attention?!" 

A staccato voice boomed from the tiny speaker in the room. "Inmate 378883 do you want to return to the cell? Shut the fuck up! You'll go when we say!" 

Panic reached into his soul <"I'll be good. I can't go back there!">, "I'll be quiet, Sir." Reaching for the washcloth, he neatly folded it length wise. Lying back on the cot, he placed it over his eyes. "I'll be good." He stated to the empty room. With that being said, he tried to find sleep. It escaped him as his sadness turned inward towards self-loathing. 

~~~~~~~~   
Present time. January 2011   
~~~~~~~ 

Walter put on his dirty clothes sans briefs and walked back to his room. The hot water had done some good in that his muscles were loose enough for him to walk without his noticeably stiff gait. 

Stepping back into the room his eyes flashed to the old answering machine. Krycek looked at the play of emotions dancing in Walter's eyes. 

"I believe that is number one going on seven." He tried to sound flippant about the remark. However, it came more of polite statement. 

Krycek cleared his throat again and tried another tack. "Walter, sit down have another drink. We need to talk." 

Not a grunt or a growl emerged from Walter's throat. He just took baby steps towards the bed and sat down. Looking at Krycek again for approval, he waited until Krycek nodded for Walter to take a drink. 

"Whoa there, cowboy. Save some for later. Your stomach is not used to the real stuff." Walter forced his throat to slow down. He reluctantly placed the bottle down on the night stand. The bottle's contents where diminished by half when he stopped drinking. Krycek let the silence stay in the room. Oddly, it was for Krycek a comfortable silence. 

Krycek watched Skinner's body relax as the Scotch finally started to take its toll on Walter's fragile body. He waited until Walter's eyes filmed over from the affects of the Scotch. 

"Now Walter, what was the last thing you ate?" Krycek noticed that Walter's torso had bent over, giving Skinner the effect of attaining a fetal position whilst still in an upright position. Krycek found himself leaning into Walter to hear his response. 

"I eat at my job; it's wholesome food." Walter did not wait for approval again; he grabbed the bottle, taking another healthy swig from the bottle. As he drank, his body slowly unrolled allowing for better access for the liquor. Placing it down with an abrupt motion, Walter took out his cigarettes, and proceeded to light one up. He exhaled directly into Krycek's face. 

"Thanks for the drink, now leave. I would like to sleep late on my day off. Walter did not bother to tell him that it would be an alcohol-induced slumber. With that said, Walter snuffed out the half-smoked cigarette. He rolled over so he would not have to see his former enemy. <Four more years of this and then I can...can...>

"What do you want, Krycek? Got your laughs? You've won! Now go back to the bastard and tell him he's already received his pound of flesh." 

Trying to close his eyes, he waited for sleep to claim him. 

Sleep is a fickle beast when one needs it the most it is it's most elusive. Closing his eyes, he waited for the good Scotch to work its magic. 

Alex Krycek thought he knew what to do. Get a bottle of Scotch and let the old man get drunk enough to talk. What he did not count on was Walter's complete exhaustion. Alex knew that Walter took the bus to work and walked home six nights a week. He also knew that Thursday was his day off, he had called the restaurant on some pretext and the waitress was stupid enough to give him the schedule. 

"Walter, I know you're off today, so cut the crap and talk to me." 

Walter rolled back facing Krycek, his eyes shut, "Leave me alone, Krycek. Just let me be. I'm tired." With that said, he turned his back to Krycek. 

Krycek was baffled by his emotions that were playing in his head. Not wanting to dwell on the thoughts that were bubbling through his subconscious and not wanting to push for now, he got up and pulled two twenties out his pocket. 

"Walter, get a fucking real meal in you. We'll talk later." 

Krycek had his back turned and was out the door. Krycek did not see Walter's hand shake as the money was lifted from the table. However, what Krycek did hear was a loud strangled sob coming from the older man's throat. 

The next morning Walter went to his local party story and bought forty dollars worth of cheap Scotch. Walter held the cheap Scotch tightly as he slowly walked back to his apartment. A black SUV pulled along side pacing him. A few steps further down the street, Walter finally noticed the SUV. He stopped and stared at the SUV, its windows were tinted and he could not see who was driving but he knew. Sighing and realizing that he could not escape his current tormentor, he slowly walked up to the SUV. 

The passenger side window slid down, and he heard the hiss of the lock being released. Skinner just looked at Krycek, exhaled the smoke from his lungs and got in. 

Twenty minutes later, Walter was sitting at a local steak house sitting across from his sworn enemy. The silence did not bother them. Walter's body tensed when the waiter had approached them and placed two glasses of water on the table. 

"Hi my name is Angel and I am your waiter for this dining experience. Would like something from the bar while you both decide to order?" 

It had been close to eleven years since Walter Skinner had been in a real restaurant. He was at a loss for words, his mind searched for proper response. A reddish hue enveloped his face. His embarrassment was cut short by Alex's giving the order for both of them in Spanish. 

Alex noticed Walter's confusion when he realized one steak special and two cups of coffee were ordered. 

"Walter, I really do not think booze is the answer, just eat your steak and then we'll talk." 

Neither man said a word while they waited for the meal to arrive. Walter's eyes showed the surprise of the enormity of the cut of beef in front of him. 

"It's the house special, Walter." The voice had no emotion. It was just stating a fact that in another life Walter would have known. 

At first Walter looked at his steak and tentatively cut into it, the knife melted into the meat as the aroma of the steak wafted into his nostrils, Walter began to salivate. The meal was being devoured in record time. 

Krycek watched the older man eat. He smiled when he noticed Walter's left arm subconsciously circled his plate while he chewed his food. Biting his tongue, he did not want to call attention to Skinner's prison conditioning. Leaning over his cup of coffee, he whispered to Walter, 

"There is more if you want, Skinner. Just ask and slow down you'll get sick, your body is not used to rich food." 

Walter at that point realized that he was inhaling his food. Feeling very self-conscious about his action, his appetite vanished. His chewing slowed then stopped. He swallowed the piece of steak that was in his mouth, savoring the texture. Walter sat in front of Alex trying to commit to memory the feel and texture of the steak. He had no idea when and where he would ever taste steak again. 

Wanting to end the encounter Walter just looked at Alex. He noticed that the years were kind to him. A touch of gray, more crow lines around his eyes and no middle age spread. It occurred to Walter that a killer for hire and rat would have to stay healthy. 

"Why am I here with you?" Walter finally blurted out in a low hush. Wishing for a smoke, he did not fail to notice that Krycek had requested an inside table. To hide his discomfort, he grabbed his water and drained the glass. 

"I was in town on personal businesses." A sad feral grin graced his face at that comment. "I needed a place to stay until my contact was made, thought you'd like the company." 

"Well, I don't want any company. Now, thanks for the meal can you take me back?" Walter through the entire exchange refused to look into Krycek's eyes. 

Walter placed the water glass down. As his hand pulled away, Krycek grabbed his wrist. Krycek allowed enough pressure to ensure that only thought running in Skinner's head was <" Why is he doing this? God, just leave."> In between these two thoughts, Walter realized that another part of his brain was thinking <"How smooth and warm his hand feels on my wrist. Could this be the hand that had pounded me senseless in the stairwell so many years ago?"> He was amazed at the incongruity of his thoughts towards Krycek. 

As these trivial thoughts and others raced through Walter's mind, Krycek applied slightly more pressure as he slowly brought him back into the moment. He quietly stated to Walter, "Back to what? A shit job and apartment? Walter, No, today is your day off, and I have decided that we're going to spend some quality time." 

Walter fought the tears of pain that were building behind his eyes. Holding back the tears, Walter tilted his head up while whispering "I want to leave...to be alone, please?" 

Krycek eyes sparkled with grief. "So be it. Okay we'll leave." 

Shoving Walter's hand back in disgust, Krycek dropped enough money on the table to cover the meal and walked out without looking to see if Walter followed. 

There was total silence on the ride back. The silence did not cover the tension that wrapped around interior of the SUV. Walter without thinking was reaching for his smokes, when a cold voice shattered the silence. 

"No. You can wait until I drop you off." 

Sighing while releasing the pack and shoving the smokes into his jacket, Walter closed his eyes, hoping that Krycek would not say another word. The ride took longer then Krycek expected. The early rush hour gridlock was in full force. An hour and forty-five minutes later, the black SUV pulled up to the flophouse. 

The lull of the long silent ride caused Walter to doze off. Krycek studied the face of his one time boss and enemy by circumstance. The face, of his wet dreams was lined with wrinkles, the last eleven years where hard on his body. Walter did not strut when he walked. His gait had the definite shuffle of an individual who had learnt to walk with restraint shackles. 

The body that Skinner proudly displayed at the gym had lost all of its tone. If he gained any more weight, Krycek was sure that the man would have middle age spread and it would be all flab. His drinking and smoking worried Krycek. The health services for the poor were a national joke; and for parolees and ex-cons virtually none existent. 

Krycek intent was to drop him off and let the past remain in the past. Yet, studying this man and realizing his feelings were still there. He could not drop Skinner off to be alone. 

<"Alone for what, to live, to die?"> Krycek wanted to help, and if he looked into his soul, he wanted to own him. <"No, I will not leave you alone."> With this thought in mind, Krycek reached over to the glove box and pulled out a syringe. Putting it in his mouth, he pulled the safety cap off the needle. He then quickly injected the contents into Skinner. 

Feeling a slight pressure, Walter opened his eyes to see a syringe being pulled away from his neck. Struggling to release the safety belt, all he heard was a small sad voice floating over the drug-induced haze, 

"Sorry, you're not going to be alone." 

Skinner slowly came back from the drug-induced sleep. His mouth tasted like mothballs and he realized that he needed to relieve himself. He felt more than noticed that his head was resting on feather pillow. Skinner carefully opened his eyes to Krycek sitting in a very large overstuffed leather chair, reading a book. A long second passed between them, when Krycek finally opened his mouth. 

"Welcome back. I was wondering when the last dose would wear off? Don't bother to get up, your chains are not that long or loose." 

Skinner looked at his wrist and noticed a sliver chain attached to a soft fur lined leather cuff. He briefly struggled with his chains before he decided that he was not going anyway. Exhausted and feeling the need to relieve himself growing. Skinner relaxed into the bed. Closing his eyes, he fought the urge to scream. 

Abruptly the quilt that had been covering his body was removed. Tensing his body and expecting a cold brush of air to engulf him, Skinner opened his eyes when he realized the room was exceedingly warm. Warm to the point of being hot. 

"Well, a little morning hard-on here?" 

Walter just sighed in frustration. "Krycek let me go, please. I need to take a piss, and why the fuck am I here and to that point, where am I? 

"Well, the boy can speak. Krycek grabbed his semi-flaccid penis, looking into Walter's eyes, "Remarkable what four and half days of forced rest can do for one's cognizant abilities." Releasing his hold, he grabbed a bedpan that was on the nightstand, placing it underneath Walter's organ, he waited for Skinner to understand what was expected of him. 

Walter just stared at Krycek. The need to go over rode his need to ask any of the questions that ran through his mind. Sighing in relief, Walter Skinner took the longest piss in his current memory. 

"Now, that was not too bad?" Krycek stated as he walked into the adjoining bathroom. Walter took stock of his surroundings. Slowly coming to the realization that this strange bedroom was not strange at all. 

Krycek stood at the archway between the rooms. A small sad smile crept upon his face as he watched Walter finally become aware of his location. 

"Yes, I brought this place on pennies off the dollar; the former owner had to liquidate on short notice. Like it?" Krycek eyes swept the room and then held contact with Walter's ever growing eyes. 

Walter's face went from pale red to bright red in a matter of moments. Quickly turning into pale green, "My God, Krycek what have you done to me?" The question was uttered in a horse whisper. 

He was lost and both of them knew it. By not showing up to work or reporting to his PO, he would most probably return to a state prison. Because, he had crossed state lines, he would be considered a fugitive. Walter had just had added a couple years to his sentence. 

"God, I can't go back to that prison. Please tell me what you want, I, oh God!" 

Walter Skinner in his realization that he would probably die in solitary confinement at the nearest Maximum Security Prison started to hyperventilate. Visions of white glaring light scorched his mind, in his mind the pit of despair that covered his soul erupted into weeping sobs while his body shuddered. 

Pulling and weeping simultaneously, Walter thrashed about in his bed. Krycek expected a verbal joust to ensue, not the physical reaction that he was witnessing. At first, he thought to let Walter work himself into exhaustion. Yet, as the intensity of the older man's thrashing increased, he began to have doubts about his current strategy. 

"WALTER!" 

When Walter did not respond to his voice, Krycek did the only thing he could think of, placing his body completely over Walter's while grabbing his head with his good hand. The mantra of the moment became, "It's all right, It's all right." 

The words were repeated endlessly. Eventually, Walter Skinner's sobs diminished to intermittent sniffles. As Walter's sobs decreased in volume, so did Krycek's mantra. Ever so lightly, Krycek wiped Skinner's puffy eyes. Krycek was so close he could smell Walter's musty smell. 

So close to the man that occupied a majority of his fantasies, he was tempted to claim the mouth that was his to do with what he wished. Looking into Walter's red and swollen out eyes, a twinkle and small smile crossed his eyes. 

They stayed in that same position for a long time. Long enough for Krycek to hear the rumbling of Walter's empty stomach. "Are you okay now? No more drama for today, Walter, I can stay here just as long as I need to be. Now I am going to release the bindings, you can stay here, or you can go into the den and I will fix you something to eat. The sounds I am hearing now are not sobs." Krycek quickly released the bindings and went into the kitchen not bothering to see if Walter was behind him. 

Walter lay in the bed for a few moments, attempting to collect his thoughts. Sitting up, he looked about for his clothes, finding none in his sight. Feeling self-conscious and aware that he was totally naked, he inhaled deeply wishing for a drink and smoke. 

Shuffling into the over size den, he immediately felt the blast of the hearth. The room looked exactly the same. Walter walked over to the library shelves that covered the wall, squinting his eyes he looked over the selections of books that graced the wall. Mulder's selection of Slash Fan Fiction covered the third shelf. He had allowed Mulder to read that garbage only because his enthusiasm for play increased after reading certain authors. 

<NO! I will not go there!> Walter straightened his back and turned abruptly to face Krycek. "Why did you buy this place?" 

Krycek never looked up to answer Walter's question; he paused long enough to ask one of his own. "Are you thirsty? I can offer you anything with in reason. And come here, I am not bringing the soup and sandwich to you." 

Walter Skinner stood with his back toward the library shelf trying to ponder his options. Feeling more than naked and little flush from the heat, Walter decided upon clothes first. Trying to keep his voice calm, Skinner voiced cracked, "Can I have my clothes back, please?" 

Walter tried summoning the will to look at Krycek. He tried to remember the man he was, the longer Krycek stared, the more he acknowledged the man he had become. Finally Walter shuffled to the breakfast nook and took up a stool. 

He let Walter eat in silence, while he cleared the kitchen. After setting the timer on the coffee machine, He turned round to watch Walter shove the last of the sandwich into his mouth. Noticing the soup bowl was empty. Krycek took the bowl and placed into the sink while taking a glass from the rack. "What do you want to drink Walter?" 

Without thinking, Walter blurted out in a small voice, "Something strong, something", his voice faltered when he noticed Krycek holding an empty glass. 

"Think carefully, Walter. I'm asking you what you want to drink." 

Krycek placed his good hand on Walter's chin forcing him to look into his eyes. Holding a look that was reserved for individuals before being sent to Hades, Walter's body trembled ever so lightly. "Walter, want do you want to drink, really?" The tone was deceptive there was ice under the question. 

Walter Skinner wanted a drink badly, but not bad enough to incur whatever wrath was implied in the question. "Err, tea, ice tea, please." 

Krycek pushed Walter's chin away gently and turned to the icebox. 

<"A small victory, he's learning,"> he thought. Picking up the glass he placed on the counter next to the icebox, he decided that Walter needed all the calories for now, so he took out the sweet tea. He opened the sugar bowl, putting another two heaping tablespoons of sugar into the tea before placing in front of Walter. 

Walter hesitantly took a sip at first. Letting the sweet gooey tea flow down his throat, he concluded that he liked the tea. In two swallows, the tea was gone. The process was repeated twice before Walter pushed the empty glass away and to the side of where Krycek had stood watching Walter drink the tea. 

"Aaa, thanks." Fidgeting with his hands, not knowing what to do, Walter's body began to vibrate slightly. Partly due to the sugar rush, partly due to the anxiety of finding himself beholden to a man that now held the power of life or death in his hands. 

A maniacal grin crept upon Walter's face that turned into muffled giggles. Frowning, Krycek check to see if his fly was opened. Not understanding Walter's sudden burst of joviality, Krycek raised his eyebrow in a classical Spock manner. 

"It's just funny, Krycek, this is the second time that you hold my life in your hands. Now this life is not much, it is however the second time." 

Wanting not to discuss this further, Walter got off the stool, heading for the bathroom. 

"Walter, where are you going?" It came out as a low growl. 

Walter stopped and turned round "I'm going to take another piss." 

He waited a moment to turn then froze when Krycek, hissed, "Did I give you permission to go?" 

Walter stood where he stopped, "May I go to the bathroom?" The moments went by, turning into minutes. Walter Skinner the dom of doms in his day finally understood the game that Krycek was playing. 

"What do you want, Krycek? I can't play these games anymore! I won't play this game anymore." With that, said Walter Skinner attempted to straighten his shoulders. Failing in this effort, he turned slowly while he held his breath. Walter shuffled to the bathroom. 

Krycek now was in quandary. He did not want to discipline Walter so early in his ownership; wanting Walter to willingly submit to the life style that he was born to. But clearly, Walter needed to be shown who was in control. And, it was not Skinner. Thinking of the palm-pilot, he dismissed the thought. Taking a deep breath, he walked into the bathroom. 

Walter had just started to urinate when Krycek grabbed his penis pinching the tip. A gutturally howl escaped Walter's throat. Falling to his knees, tears swelled up into Walter's eyes. 

"Listen to me, boy, you do not do anything in this house without my permission. I tell you when and where and how to piss, if I decide that is how it is going to be! Your job for now is to obey." Not getting a response from Walter, he squeezed his cock this time with more pressure. Walter's tears flowed freely down his emaciated face. Being in too much pain, all he could do was nod in agreement. 

Krycek released the pressure on his penis and growled "Get up." 

Not being in shape and in his weakened condition, Walter forced himself up only to stumble backwards. Krycek anticipated this, with his prosthetic arm braced him from falling down. Krycek never let his grip on Walter falter. He waited patiently for Walter to get his breathing under control. 

"Now what are you doing, boy." Krycek purred. 

Walter could only think of one response, "Can I please take a piss?" 

Krycek smiled and squeezed again, "Now what are you doing, boy? Again, we can do this all night." 

Walter sucked his breath in through his loose yellow stain teeth, fighting back another wave of tears and pain, Walter finally acquiesced, and asked, "Can I take a piss, sir?" Walter howled again and leaned into the wall, "Sir, please may I take a piss." A grunt of approval escaped from Krycek's thin lips. 

Forcing Walter to walk over to the toilet, he released the pressure on Walter's cock. Still holding it, he forcefully told Skinner to piss. 

All Skinner could do was to obey. After he had finished, Krycek shook Walter's cock and released it. Standing at a hair's breath from Walter's ear, Krycek stated to Walter, "Now go clean the dishes up that you used. You know how to clean right? Then we'll talk." 

Walter Skinner slowly walked over to the kitchen and washed the one dirty glass, spoon and saucer. Krycek watched Walter rinse the dishes. Running his hand through his hair, finally appraising Walter's physique. He could still see the remains of the fine body he once had. 

<"He is dangerously underweight, and his health is not well. He needs to see a dentist and most probably needs pair of glasses, judging by the way he had unconsciously squinted while he shoved his nose right up to the binding of books.">

<"So Walter does not want to play."> A smirk arose from Krycek's lips. <Well fuck your wants.> At this point Krycek surmised Walter has no idea what he wants. The smiled deepened as he thought <"I'll force you to care about your body. Then just maybe you'll care about me.">

TBC

  
Archived: July 09, 2001 


End file.
